


Frankincense, Gold, and Cerveza

by unbound_volumes



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: GGE2017, Ian gets in the fucking car, M/M, Post-season 7, boyfriends in Mexico, they get their happy ending because they deserve their happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 20:53:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13443192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unbound_volumes/pseuds/unbound_volumes
Summary: Ian tells Mickey to get some Christmas spirit, then kind of wishes he hadn't. Their first Christmas in Mexico.





	Frankincense, Gold, and Cerveza

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amaryllissociety](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=amaryllissociety).



> Written as part of the Gallavich Gift Exchange 2017. For amaryllissociety, who wanted "Mickey and Ian celebrating their first Christmas or New Years in Mexico together." (Sorry I couldn't work the Mandy friendship in there; I really wanted to.) Merry (belated!) Christmas!
> 
>  
> 
> Full disclosure: everything I know about Mexican Christmas traditions, I learned from Google - so take it with a shaker of salt. (Should you see anything blatantly wrong, or by at all offensive, please message me.)

**9 de diciembre;** **el primer día de Las Posadas**

 

“Why the fuck is there an army of crazy-eyed statues staring at me in the living room?” Mickey is barely inside the apartment, having come in far enough to close the door behind him and stop abruptly. He lowers the plastic grocery bag from his fingertips to the floor, and pivots slowly where he stands, taking in the newest additions to tiny space.

 

Ian appears besides Mickey, as if he needed see for himself what  the fuss was about. He rubs the back of his neck, chancing a slight grin. “So. Christmas.”

 

“This has fuck all to do with Christmas. Not one of these fuckers looks like St. Nick, and they sure as shit ain’t a Christmas tree. Wanna try again?”

 

“Yes, Christmas. I was talking with Señora Ramirez next door--”   
  


“Ay. There’s your problem. No good ever came from talking to that old bat,” Mick snorts. To be fair, he really  _ didn’t _ like her at first. She seemed to have made it her life mission to pawn off food on them every time she happened to see them coming back from a long day of work, and it made raised Mickey’s hackles, because who the fuck does that? What was her end game? Eventually though, some of her endless chatter must have taken root in his subconscious (because of  _ course _ Ian invites her in; that wannabe-Boy-Scout-for-life couldn’t have closed the door on an old lady if his life depended on it), and Mickey realized that she just really missed her own children. It would be kind of sweet, actually, if Mickey were inclined to admit such a thing, but he’s not. Besides, it’s fun to wind Ian up.

 

“She’s sweet,” Ian immediately counters.

 

“She keeps trying to see me up with her friend’s granddaughter.”

 

“See? She likes you. Sweet.”  Ian’s about to pursue this line of reasoning further, but decides to return to the original argument upon seeing Mickey’s unimpressed expression. “Anyway, we were talking, and she asked me about Christmas traditions where we’re from. And no--” Ian cuts off the protest Mickey is opening his mouth to make, “--she wasn’t pressing for an address, Mickey. I told her about Christmas  _ in the States _ , as in some general cultural thing, not in South Side Chicago specifically. Jesus, I’m not that dumb.” Mickey looks ready to interrupt again, most likely to give him shit about that particular statement, so Ian presses on. “I think it’s safe to assume most people have figured out we’re not from around here.”

 

“Not with your pasty ass.”

 

“ _ My _ pasty ass? Seriously?! Have you ever looked in a mirror?” Again, Ian lets it go and returns to the original argument. He’s a goddamn saint sometimes. “Look, we were just chatting about Christmas traditions. And she asked if we had a nativity, since they’re like, the Christmas  _ thing _ in Mexico. And when I told her we didn’t have one yet, she offered to let me have a set she picked up for her son, before his in-laws gave them a set of their own. She seemed genuinely tickled to help.”

 

“Because she’s batshit crazy.”

 

“Because she’s sweet and she seems to like us for some reason.”

 

“So back the fuck up. You agreed to a nativity, and we end up with a city’s worth of wooden people taking up residence in the living room? A nativity’s supposed to be a handful of little pieces you can set on a mantle, not the entire roster of the Bears.” Mickey gestures to the scene around him, where seemingly every flat surface has been covered with brightly colored figures. The side table near the door has been cleared of the keys, lighters, and other usual detritus, and is now covered entirely by the creche, along with several angels in brightly patterned robes. A window ledge showcases various animals and people standing around a well. The low coffee table holds a shepherd, sheep, and… Mickey leans closer, making sure he is seeing correctly. “Why the fuck is there a lady doing the salsa?”

 

Ian drags a hand through his hair in a helpless little gesture. “Turns out, their idea of what belongs in a nativity scene is a lot broader here.” 

 

Now that Mickey is looking closer, he can see that the dancer is not alone in her incongruity.  He picks one of the wooden people on the ledge, and turns to show Ian. “So this would be…?”

 

“An avocado farmer, I guess?” says Ian.

 

“An avocado farmer. ‘Cause the Wise Man over there was jonesing for an avocado after following the star across the desert.”

 

“Joseph,” corrects Ian.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Joseph,” Ian says again. “We’re not supposed to set out the Wise Men until the feast of the Epiphany. It’s in January. You know, the whole  _ 12 Days of Christmas  _ thing?”

 

Mickey would give him shit about how very Catholic one Ian Gallagher sounded at that moment, but he had bigger fish to fry. “There’s more of these things?”

 

Ian grimaces at his error. “In the closet…? Look, I was picturing a small nativity, too. But what was I supposed to say when she started hauling them over?”

 

This time, Mickey really does let out an indignant snort. “How the fuck about ‘no’?”

 

“I know they take up more space than ideal--”

 

“Try  _ all _ the fucking space.”

 

“--but we don’t have to keep them out until the feast in January or whatever. We’ll just keep them long enough to set out the baby Jesus on Christmas.”

 

Mickey moans loudly, drawing his hand over his face. “Christ, Ian--”

 

“That’s what I’m saying, Mick!” 

 

Ian’s practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, he’s so pleased with himself. Mickey takes a full ten seconds of staring in disbelief at Ian’s bright, self-satisfied expression before he responds. “Har-dee-fucking-har, man. How are we supposed to move around in here with with all these things?”

 

“It’s for two weeks, Mick. Not even that. We’ll make a nice abuela very happy, and maybe save our immortal souls.”

 

“Good luck with that. Pretty sure Joseph is standing right right next to the spot where we banged against the wall.”

 

Ian contemplates this for a moment before dismissing it. “Hard to find a place to put them where we  _ haven’t _ fucked. Where’s your Christmas spirit?” Mickey remains unmoved, so Ian tries again. “Come on, it’s tradition.” 

 

“Not my tradition,” Mickey insists.

 

“It could be. We need to start some traditions of our own down here.”

 

“We have some: banging in every room, on every surface. And I don’t want some hollow-eyed holy statues fucking that up for me.”

 

Ian takes a step closer to Mickey. “Ain’t gonna mess up that tradition, Mick.”

 

“Oh, yeah, hot shot?” Mickey’s arms are crossed in front of his chest, but he’s not moving back, and the happiness in his voice gives him away. “You sure about that?”

 

“Uh huh. How about you let me run with this new tradition, and I’ll prove to you that it won’t put a damper on the old.” Ian is almost flush with Mickey, hands on Mickey’s hips, his grin predatory.

 

“I might agree to that,” Mickey breathes out, as one of Ian’s hands moves to make quick work of undoing the button on Mickey’s jeans.

 

“Oh, yeah?” Ian is practically purring.

 

“...if you turn Mary the fuck around. You’re not getting my dick out while she’s staring at us.”

 

Ian knocks over two angels, and nearly drops the holy mother, in his haste to comply.

  
  
  


**11 de diciembre;** **el tercer día de Las Posadas**

 

They’re watching some shitty bootleg copy of an already shitty action movie when Ian notices it. He fumbles for the remote and pauses the DVD, the grainy image freezing on screen.

 

“What the fuck, man? Why’d you stop it?” Mickey questions from his side. The couch cushions were flatter towards the center, stuffing worn down with use, making it inevitable that he and Ian would end up leaning against each other when watching television. Ian’s movement has disrupted the balance, and now Mickey’s shifting in the opposite direction to keep from falling, grabbing at the Oreo package between them that’s sliding towards the floor.

 

Ian’s already moving towards the TV table, bending down a bit. He stands, a figure in hand. “Really, Mick? A devil? Holding fistfuls of money? Where are you finding this shit?”

 

One shoulder rises and falls. “Easy. Turns out you’re weird if you  _ don’t _ have Satan in your nativity.” He brushes Oreo crumbs off his lap, trying to get resituated. “One store had even a shelf that was nothing but devils, all doing random shit. Liked the money one, though. Figured he could be our good luck charm.” 

 

Ian can’t really argue against that logic, and doesn’t try. He returns to the couch, settling back into his boyfriend’s side. “You’re evil.”

 

“Nah. The devil’s evil. I just found my Christmas spirit. Isn’t that what you wanted?” It earns Mickey a sharp poke in the ribs, but he can feel Ian’s grin against his neck, and it’s totally worth it.

  
  
  


**19 de diciembre; el cuarto día de Las Posadas**

 

The scene in the kitchen area startles a loud bark of laughter from Mickey.  “How’d you get roped into being Martha Stewart’s bitch, again?” 

 

Ian glowers at his grinning boyfriend, but the effect is somewhat ruined by the streak of  papier-mâché paste drying into an uneven grey smear across his cheeks. “Fuck off.”

 

“Oh. Touchy. Looks like someone isn’t in the Christmas spirit.” Judging from Ian’s epic eye roll, Mickey thinks he’s probably regretting ever using that expression a couple days back. Mickey chances getting close enough to peer at the mess spread over the table - a bowl with viscous goop dripping down the side, damp piles of crumpled newspaper, some forlorn paint brushes laying unused to the side - darting away before Ian can gift him with a  papier-mâchéd face of his own. “Seriously, man, what’s happening here?”

 

“I’m making a piñata.” Ian sighs heavily, staring down at the strips of newspaper in front of him. “At least, I’m trying to. Figured I saw Debs do it enough, it had to be in my DNA.” He abruptly turns his scowl towards Mickey.  “This is your fault, you know.”

 

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot skyward. “How’s that, Bob Ross?” 

 

“Señora Diaz was looking for volunteers to host Las Pasadas parties at night. I knew you wouldn’t want to have a million little kids coming in here, so I volunteered to do this instead.”

 

Mickey chuckles. “Nice try with the blame, but I ain’t buying, Red. You were right about me not wanting to set up a revolving door for a roving band of pipsqueaks, though.”

 

“You’re welcome,” mutters Ian. He jabs at the gluey concoction as if it has personally wronged him. Glancing again at his boyfriend’s dirtied face, Mickey figures it kind of has.

 

“So, what exactly is this supposed to be?” Once he’s satisfied that Ian’s frustration has been mostly diverted, Mickey risks getting near the table again. Now that he has a chance to study the chaos, he can see that several cones of paper have been haphazardly attached to a central spherical piece.

 

“A star. A seven-pointed star, actually. Hit up Google, and it said that a lot of people make piñatas in the shape of a seven-pointed star to represent the seven deadly sins.” Ian scratches at his nose, leaving another smudge of goo, but Mickey’s smart enough not to point it out. “Kind of makes sense, if you think about it. Kids get rewarded with candy for beating the shit out evil.”

 

“Really?” Mickey pointedly rakes his eyes over Ian’s body. “Because I know for a fact that you and I have personally enjoyed a lot of those sins.”

 

“That so?” Now Ian is slowly beginning to enjoy the conversation. “Any sins in particular?”

 

Mickey pretends to think it over for a second. “Gluttony’s always a good one. I enjoy drinking too much and eating shit I shouldn’t.”

 

“Definitely. You always did like sweet things. Any others?”

 

“What’s the one about being pissed off and not taking it? Wrath?”

 

“Wrath,” Ian confirms. 

 

“Yeah, you don’t fuck with me or mine,” said Mickey, stepping closer into Ian’s personal space.

 

“You don’t take shit,” agrees Ian. “Are those the only ones?”

 

“Pretty sure there’s something about lust.”

 

Ian’s smile has taken on a lascivious gleam as he finds himself backed up against the table, thighs bumping the battered wood.  “Hmmm. I remember that, too.”

 

“Lust is pretty fucking fun.”

 

“Is it, now?” Ian asks. “You wanna prove it?”

 

Mickey makes a compelling case. 

 

Later, the crushed remains of the piñata go in the trash bin, and Ian jogs a couple of blocks down the street to an all-night bodega to purchase a store-bought star, whistling the entire time.

  
  


**21 de diciembre;** **el sexto día de Las Posadas**

 

Señora Ramirez stands beaming up at Ian from the doorway, a platter of cookies held aloft in liver-spotted hands. “I am so, so glad that you could use the nacimiento _ ,  _ mijo.  _ Now _ it feels like Christmas, yes?”

 

“Absolutely, Señora,” agrees Ian amiably, taking the food. He shoots an “I told you so” look over his shoulder, where Mickey is seated on the couch. Mickey is predictably unimpressed by the brief exchange, and when Ian faces the elderly woman again, he finds her smile has fallen slightly, her head tilted in confusion. Ian follows her gaze to the hall table beside him.

 

“Ian, why is the holy family facing the wall?”

 

For a moment, Ian’s mind goes utterly still, before it kicks into overdrive and he scrambles for an explanation. “Ah. Well. In America, um, we set our nativities so that the people are always facing… Bethlehem?” He warms to the lie quickly. “You always turn your holy family to the east, towards the star, even if there’s a wall there.”

 

“Ah.” Señora Ramirez makes a sound of understanding. And while Mickey  _ doesn’t _ actually make a sound, Ian swears he can feel the silent laughter from across the room. Motherfucker.  He turns to shoot him a furious look when the señora’s words draw his attention again. “But Ian… they are facing the  _ south _ .”

 

“The south?” he repeats. She nods. “Huh. Did not realize that.”

 

This time, the laugh from the couch isn’t silent at all. 

  
  


**22 de diciembre -** **el séptimo día de Las Posadas**

 

Mickey lifts an eyebrow at the cardboard bottle carrier in Ian’s hand. “You springing for glass bottles, now? Getting all uppity about your beer, Gallagher?”

 

Ian laughs from the doorway, transferring the beer from one hand to the other as he shrugs out of his jacket. He crosses the tiny room in a few strides, dropping unceremoniously next to Mickey on the battered couch. The beers clink softly as he extends the six-pack to Mickey for inspection. “It was a gift from Jorge.  _ Noche Buena _ . Apparently, they only make it this time of year.”

 

Mickey snorts a little, freeing bottle. “Your coworker - at a bar - gave you booze? Does he do all his Christmas shopping from the inventory?”

 

Ian’s mouth quirks into that lopsided grin that Mickey was aiming for; he loves that fucking grin. “Pretty sure it was on the up-and-up, Mick, seeing as how the manager was standing three feet away.” He fishes in his pocket and proffers Mickey his keychain, with its multi-tool containing a bottle opener, but Mickey’s already caught the edge of the aluminum cap on the coffee table, popping if off with a well-time blow to the bottle. Now it’s Mickey’s turn to grin at Ian’s arched eyebrows. 

 

“And you wonder why our coffee table looks like shit,” says Ian, but there’s no heat behind it.

 

“Pretty sure it’s because we dragged it off the sidewalk on trash day.”

 

Ian concedes the point, but still uses the opener on his own bottle. “Happy holidays,” he toasts, tilting the bottle neck slightly towards Mickey, who does the same, before both take long pulls of the beer.

 

They immediately screw up their faces in disgust.

 

“Fucking hell, Ian,” says Mickey, grimacing. “Does your coworker  _ hate _ you?”

 

“I guess it’s safe to say we  _ don’t _ like ‘bock-style’ beer,” says Ian. He’s half-reading, half-glaring at the label. “Damn, that’s nasty.”

 

“Now we know why they only make it at Christmas. No one in their right minds would drink this shit on a regular basis.” Mickey takes a second, smaller sip. Still gross.

 

Ian moves to stand. “You want me to grab us some Tecate?”

 

Mickey considers, then shakes his head. “Nah.” He manages a larger swig this time. “No point in wasting beer.”

 

“Are you serious right now?”

 

A shrug. “It’s free. If I drink enough, it might taste alright.” Mickey smiles, then tilts his bottle towards Ian again. “ _ Me gusta gratis _ . I’m a cheap date.”  

 

Ian rolls his eyes and moves to the kitchen. “I’m not wasting my one beer a night on that shit. It’s all yours.”

 

Mickey raises his beer for a third time to the multitude of nativity figures in front of him. “Feliz Navidad, cabrones.”

  
  
  


**23 de diciembre -** **el octavo día de Las Posadas**

 

A savory, spicy smell wafts greets Ian at the front door, and he inhales deeply, Ian inhales deeply. “Mmm. You cooking? Smells good in here.”

 

“Just some Hamburger Helper-type shit. Store had a sale on--”

 

“Mick?” Ian cuts him off abruptly. Mickey smirks down at the skillet, knowing exactly what it is that has caught his boyfriend’s eye. Not wanting to give himself away, he gives a half-interested hum. 

 

“Why the fuck is there a flamingo next to the camel?” 

 

Mickey bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He hears Ian moving further into the living room. “And someone selling tortillas? Since when was there someone selling tortillas at the manger?”

 

Mickey moves the skillet to a back burner joins Ian. “I dunno. Seems useful. It’s not like they got a full kitchen in the barn; can’t exactly cook their own food.” Ian just looks at him. Mickey plucks the bird from the redhead’s hand. “Hey, man. You’re the one who insisted on honoring the nativity tradition. I’m just following your lead.”

 

“A flamingo,” says Ian, flatly.

 

“Why the fuck not? Makes as much sense as Mary popping out a kid without having popped her cherry.” Ian just shakes his head and toes off his shoes, He’s trying to hide it as he moves the sneakers towards the closet, but Mickey totally sees the smile. “Feliz Navidad, pendejo,” he tells him, and goes to finish the food before it gets all congealed and gross.

  
  
  


**24 de diciembre - Nochebuena**

 

“Got yesterday’s mail. There’s something for you.” Mickey gestures towards the papers on the counter. Ian waits, but when it becomes clear that Mickey isn’t going to add anything, he grabs the stack and thumbs through it, quickly finding the piece in question among the fliers and junk mail. It’s a single sheet of paper with a generic holiday letter crammed into a nondescript envelope, but Ian lights up like he’s holding a winning lottery ticket.

 

“Who is it this time?” Mickey asks, nursing one of the  _ Noche Buenas _ from his seat at the table.

 

“The Anglins. They wish us the happiest of holidays. So jealous they can’t spend it in warm weather, since Detroit is fucking cold this year. The kids are great, the dog is great, the picket fence is great, best for the new year, blah blah.”

 

“The dog? That’s a nice touch.”

 

“Yep. Lip’s got a gift for writing letters in code.”

 

“Don’t let him hear you say it. Don’t think his neck could support his head if it got any bigger.”

 

Ian swats at Mickey with the letter, still beaming. “I’ll have to sit down later and work out the new number, but it looks like he wants to talk tomorrow. Didn’t think he was going to get a new burner until after the holidays. I guess he’s no longer worried about ‘increased communications surveillance’ this time of year. Wonder what changed. Think that means we’ll be able to call more often overall?”

 

“Whatever. With our luck, he’s gotten too damn cocky and your Christmas call will be the neon light that leads the feds to our door.” Mickey throws back the rest of the beer, wiping his mouth with his arm.

 

Ian narrows his eyes a little, but tries to keep his tone light. “Pretty sure Lip’s not in a hurry to link himself to a couple of criminals on the lam. He’ll be careful.”

 

If anything, Mickey’s scowl darkens. “Wouldn’t want Lip to dirty his hands, now.”

 

Ian’s good humor has rapidly deteriorated in the face of Mickey’s disdain. “You got a problem with Lip? Because the last time I checked, he’s the reason we have contact with anyone stateside, including your sister. You got someone else who’s willing to step up to bat, by all means, let’s hear about it.” He’s pushed away from where he was propped against the formica counter, and is now has his hands planted directly across the table from Mickey, getting right in Mickey’s space.

 

Mickey groans, runs a hand over his face. “Look, it’s not about Lip.”

 

“Really? ‘Cause it sure sounds like it’s about Lip.”

 

“I’m tellin’ you, it ain’t about your shithead brother.”

 

“Fine, if it’s not about Lip, then what?”

 

“You know what? It’s nothing. Just drop it, Ian.” Mickey’s regretting saying anything; he really does not want to be having this fight right now.

 

Ian isn’t placated by Mickey’s half-hearted dismissal.  “Bullshit. You’re in a bitchass mood, and I have a right to know why.” 

 

“And I have a right not to sit here with you and paint our nails like a couple of pussies while we talk about our feelings. Jesus!” For one long moment, the words hung in the air, Mickey awaiting Ian’s retort as the faces down the murderous look squarely at him. Instead, Ian abruptly turns, grabs a beer from the fridge, and stomps into the bedroom. The nativity figures nearest the wall vibrates softly as Ian slams the door against the frame. Mickey sighs into the now vacant space where his boyfriend had stood. “Well, fuck. That went well.”

 

***

 

Ian has found living in a small apartment is that it makes a good storm-off difficult. You can stomp and slam doors, sure, but your journey is something like,  _ three steps _ from point A to point B. Besides that, there are really only two places to go where he can put a door between himself and the world. And because Ian hadn’t felt like taking refuge in the miniscule bathroom, he is now stuck in an only slightly-less miniscule bedroom, seated on the bed (the only piece of furniture in the room aside from a cheap plywood chest of drawers in one corner, and a milk crate nightstand on the side of the bed that’s not up against the wall), with nothing to do. He stares at the letter from his brother still clenched in his fist, relaxes his hand, smoothes out the crinkled paper. Maybe the whole “secret-code spy letters” thing (with their phone numbers for burner phones cleverly hidden in syllable counts) wasn’t the perfect communication arrangement, but it was a damn sight better than no communication at all. And Lip seems to think they’ll be able to arrange for actual meet-ups within the next year or so. Ian doesn’t see any of Mickey’s brothers working on that.

 

“Hey.” The door opens a crack; enough to show Mickey looking a little chagrined and a lot exhausted on the other side. Ian’s heart twinges at the sight - his default reaction, it seems, is to want to comfort Mickey - until he remembers that he’s still furious. He presses his lips tightly together and looks away.

 

Mickey sighs as he moves into the room. “Well, that’s one thing I agree with Lip about.”

 

Ian can’t help himself; he takes the bait. “What?”

 

“ _ The chin _ is the worst.” Mickey sits on the end of the bed, bumping his knee against Ian’s. If anything, Ian clenches his jaw tighter. “Come on, man - nothing?”

 

“So glad I can piss both you and my brother off.”

 

“Fuck. Okay, listen. I wasn’t shitting you when I said this wasn’t about Lip.” Ian rolls his eyes, but at least he’s paying attention, so Mickey keeps going. “I mean, it is, but not in a bad way. Because you’re right - he is our connection to family.” Even though Ian’s still silent, Mickey can tell he’s listening. “And that he has to be? That fucking kills me, Ian.” 

 

Now it’s Ian moving to look full-on at at Mickey, while Mickey stares at the wall, refuses to make eye contact. “I made my choice when I skipped jail. I was okay with leaving behind everything. Well - not everything. Wish Mandy could have… well, you know.” He trails off for a moment, before shaking his head and continuing. “Point is, I knew what I was leaving when I made that choice. But you? Shit. You Gallaghers have this whole  _ Walton-family, Goodnight-John-Boy _ shit going on, and you walked away. You had a good job, good fucking insurance, and  _ I _ knew what I was doing man, but you….”

 

“You don’t think I knew what I was doing?” Ian asks, carefully. He doesn’t sound upset, just curious.

 

“Put on the spot like that?  Not sure you really fucking  _ got _ it. I showed up, told you to make a decision, and now you’re as much a fugitive as I am. Now if you want to talk to your family, you gotta wait for your brother to send us phone numbers.” For a second, Mickey thumbs at his lower lip, thinking, before he jerks his head to indicate the space around them. “Now we’re here.”

 

Ian gives a quiet hum of agreement. “Now we’re here.”

 

Mickey shakes his head again.  “Fuck, man…. This isn’t what I want for us. For you.”

 

Their tired bedsprings gave a slight creek as Ian shifts enough to knock his knee against Mickey’s, mirroring his boyfriend’s earlier gesture. “Then it’s a good thing that you don’t get to fucking decide my life for me, isn’t it?” Mickey opens his mouth, an argument already on his lips, but Ian keeps going as if he doesn’t see. “You didn’t choose this for me, Mickey. I did. And you have to trust that I knew what I was doing.”

 

Mickey takes a shaky inhale, waiting a long moment before finally speaking. “You still would have come if you knew it would turn out like this? Some weird mirror universe of life on the south side? You working at a store, picking up weekend hours at a bar? Me “helping with the books”, roughing people up for money off the record?  It’s like we’re going backwards in time, but this time around, we gotta do it in a different country. No family. No friends. Not even fucking English.”

 

“Not backwards.”

 

“You were a fucking EMT, Ian.”

 

Ian glances around the room. He knows what Mickey is seeing: stained walls, makeshift furniture. He’s not seeing what it represents. “So I’m back at a store. But this time, there’s no middle-age man buying me jackets and telling me how special I am while his wife watches us fuck on CCTV. And yeah, I’m at a bar. A bar where I get paid to pass out drinks, not lapdances.”  Mickey snorts a little a this, but refuses to give. Ian stills for a moment, collecting his thoughts. It’s important that he make Mickey understand.  “And I’m not coked out of my mind just to get through the day. I’m not manic. I’m not running from demons in my head, and I’m not so low that flinging myself off a bridge seems like an upgrade.” Mickey’s head jerks up at that, and he looks like he wants to say something, but Ian just grabs his hands, plows on. “And you’re not living with Terry. You don’t have to worry about him finding out and coming after you. You’re not hiding.  _ We’re _ not hiding.”

 

Mickey swallows hard. “I never wanted to hide you, Ian.”

 

“I know that now. But that was then. And this is now, here. And we’re together.  _ Here _ . So, not backwards. Just different.” 

 

Ian looks to where his fingers are intertwined with Mickey’s, gives a gentle squeeze. “You have to quit thinking that you ruined my life, Mick.”

 

Mickey wants to believe, but he’s been living with the doubts for months, now. “I had nothing left in Chicago but you, Ian. Even if I got out of jail, there wouldn’t have been anything. Leaving wasn’t exactly a hard call. But you? Fuck. You gave up a lot to be here.”

 

“Gained a lot, too.”

 

“Bullshit.”

 

“I get to be with you.”

 

“Big fucking deal.”  Before Mickey can say more, Ian takes his face in his hands and turns it towards him. Mickey can feel his boyfriend staring at him, waiting him out. Eventually, he raises his eyes to Ian’s, who’s gazing at such intensity, such naked love, that it’s almost painful to take in, and it’s all Mickey can do to face that look and not to let his gaze skitter away again.

 

“It  _ is  _ a big fucking deal. I get to be with you. I choose to be with you.” And fuck if Mickey doesn’t start to believe it when Ian’s staring at him like that.

 

He looks back as long as he can before it’s too much, and he clears his throat with a rough, wet sound. “This isn’t some fucking romcom, Gallagher.” Mickey’s aiming for gruff, but he feels a burning behind his eyes that he knows Ian will have seen, even as he’s blinking it away.

 

“Good,” Ian finally says. “Because I don’t think they actually get around to fucking the shit out each other in romcoms, and  _ that’s _ something I definitely gained: easier access to your ass.”

 

Mickey finally laughs at that, a short and surprised burst of sound, and Ian understands it for what it is: gratitude for not forcing the moment, for not making Mickey listen as he tells him he’s worth it. And Ian’s okay with it. He’ll continue to tell him, time and again, until Mickey’s ready to hear what Ian’s saying, and not shy away. Ian’s playing the long game here. 

 

Besides, he really does love Mickey’s ass.

  
  
  


**25 de diciembre; Día de Navidad**

 

Christmas Day is a lazy affair at the apartment, with both men padding around in their pajamas well into the afternoon. It’s almost lunch before Ian even remembers the nativity. It’s not until he’s going to place the infant Jesus in his makeshift trough-cradle that he sees there is a figure already there, and really, he thinks, he should have expected it by now. He wordlessly lifts the newest addition to the manger in Mickey’s direction.

 

Mickey’s not trying to temper his smile in the least. “What? It’s a fucking donkey. I thought you’d be happy, ‘cause it’s all traditional and shit.”

 

“You found a donkey carrying beer?” Ian’s honestly a little impressed.

 

“Not only that, but you could chose donkeys with different types of beer. I went with Dos Equis. Figured the holy family deserves the name brand booze.” Ian squints at the figure, and sure enough, someone has carefully painted the two-x logo on the small bottles tied to the blanket adorning the donkeys back. “And it makes a fuckton more sense than the shit the Wise Men bring. Mom and dad just had a baby in a fucking barn. Keep your fucking perfume and give them some goddamn beer.”

 

Ian considers this for a moment, shrugs, and carefully sets the donkey next to Joseph. “The beer donkey can stay. But Jesus still gets the crib.”

 

Mickey wraps his arm around Ian from behind. “Not even gonna try to fight me on this one, ey?”

 

“You’ve got Christmas spirit.” Ian’s eyes light up as he seizes his opportunity. “And now they’ve got Christmas  _ spirits _ !”

 

Mickey groans and buries his face in Ian’s neck. “You’re the fucking worst.” 

 

“You love me.”

 

“Not right now I don’t.” But they’re still holding each other, grinning, and Ian has just enough time to tilt Jesus and the donkey so that they’re facing the wall along with the rest of the figurines before he proves Mickey wrong.

  
  
  



End file.
